


Love Heals

by glacis



Category: The Sentinel
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-31
Updated: 2010-01-31
Packaged: 2017-10-06 21:12:36
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,930
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/57802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/glacis/pseuds/glacis
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Jim breaks free of the past and finds his future.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Love Heals

Love Heals, a Sentinel's epiphany - set during Remembrance and Love Kills. For Pam, finally, for everything … thank you, with love.

 

The scent was out of place. A university should smell of grass, and concrete, and water; of sweat, leather, paper, and stale French fries. Not this, whatever it was. Not blood. Not excrement. Jim Ellison, staring down at the mortal remains of one Professor Robert McCaine and trying not to let his partner's elevated heart rate and labored breathing affect his watchfulness, nearly fell into a zone out trying to isolate that one elusive smell.

"Hey, man, are you with me?"

Always. Sandburg's quiet, insistent voice pulled him back from the edge of the void. "Yeah, Chief," he replied absently, nodding at Simon as his captain held out a small square of paper toward him. "That was all you got from his wallet?" he asked, reaching absently to touch his partner lightly on the shoulder. I'm okay. It's all right. Calm down, I'm right here. All in a touch. His hand fell and he went cold as he stared with confusion at the little picture.

A little picture of himself.

Thirty seven year old Ellison eyes stared down into ten year old Ellison eyes, and the world began its descent into madness.

He'd be seeing the world as it was, as he was, then abruptly, he was a kid again. Colors were brighter, sounds were crisper, everything smelled sharper. But it didn't drown him, not this time, not as a kid. It was just the way things were.

The way _he_ was.

The feeling stayed with him through the day, and lingered into the evening. He rolled a football around from one hand to another, feeling the pebbled surface under the pads of his fingertips, caught in a weird little memory fugue between what he was and what he had been. The hardwood floor beneath his bare feet became grass under cleats, the chill air warmed with the last summer sunlight. Perspective shifted, and the world was big, scary, trees towering over him, roots grabbing him by the ankle and sending him on his face.

Looking for something, something important, didn't like it out here, had to be a man about it, almost there, was that it? Oh, god, oh, no, not -- The ball shot out of his tense fingers and slammed against the wall, bringing him out of his memories and back into the present. Shaking off the tension drawing his shoulders up to his ears, he retrieved the ball and paced in front of the fireplace, idly tossing it from hand to hand. By the time Sandburg came home, he was able to calmly relate the newly retrieved memories. A forest, a football, a body.

"No doubt the trauma you suffered as a child caused you to repress your memories, Jim," Sandburg explained earnestly.

He stared at the ball and thought it over. His partner continued, hands weaving pictures in the air.

"Similar to what happened in Peru. The trauma, related to death and loss, caused you to just shut the door on what was freaking you out. Now something's happening to turn the handle, man, and you have to be able to face what's on the other side. Let me help you with it, Jim. It's what I _do_."

Among other things, he thought, but he just nodded. Sandburg brightened at the implied consent and went on.

"Remember the exercise we did that helped you remember the phone call from Jack? There's that theme again, man, death and repression. Okay," Blair hurried on, as Jim glared at him, "the smell. You got it from Professor McCaine," Blair swallowed, and Jim leaned forward in unconscious support. "Then you remembered it from the body you found as a kid." Jim nodded again. Nothing new here. He cocked an eyebrow, silently asking Blair to get on with it. "So use that, man. Take that scent, focus on it, follow it back. See where it leads you."

There was such an encouraging look on the kid's face Jim didn't have the heart to tell him he didn't think it would work. So he did what he did every time Sandburg came up with a weird idea about his senses. He went with it.

Damned if it didn't work. You'd think after almost three years he'd be expecting it, but it never failed to surprise him. Sandburg always came through, one way or another.

Bud.

The only one who'd believed in him. The only one who'd said he could do anything.

The one who _hadn't_ thought he was a freak.

More memories followed; a football championship, nobody there watching, as usual, except Steven, and little brothers didn't count. The grass was greener, the wind was sharper, the sunshine was warmer, the snap of the ball was louder, the tackle was harder, and it wasn't just memory. It just _was_. It had been easy then. For a little while, at least. Then something happened.

Bud? The flash was gone, and he let it go without a fight.

The next day, there was another body. Another taunt. The son of a bitch was making it personal.

Throughout the case that followed, Jim was in a near constant state of panic. Not that anyone could tell. He snapped often enough and loudly enough that no one got close enough to see the fear behind the anger. No one, except perhaps Blair. Sandburg was like that. A terrier with a rat. Track it down, chomp down on it, shake it 'til it was dead and still not let it drop. He'd pushed, and pushed, until Jim found himself staring up at the front of the house he'd grown up in, putting on his best game face, doing his damnedest to ignore the way his belly was trying to crawl up into his throat.

Quick punch to the bell, a few deep breaths to keep himself calm. "Hi, Dad." When had he gotten so old? And why did he look so glad to see him? In that restrained, never let 'em see you enthused Ellison way he'd always had.

Well, unless it would get you a better profit margin.

Jim shrugged off the residual bitterness as wasted effort, and got down to brass tacks. "I'm working on the strangler case." And if I have to tear open old wounds to do it, then so be it. I've done worse.

By the end of an uncomfortable half hour, he wasn't sure he had. He was angry, angrier than he could ever remember being. It had been important, damnit. It _all_ had. He shuffled through the clippings his father dug out of the old boxes, a little amazed that the old man had actually kept all this stuff, but not at all surprised that it was stuffed up in the attic. His dad had the strangest way of looking at the past. All good times and fun. He didn't remember ever having either. Fights, yeah, arguments, yeah, put downs, a whole hell of a lot, absence, even more. Fun? Not with _his_ father.

Pointing at the group shot from his team championship game, almost twenty years ago, he asked, not as calmly as he had hoped, "Where were you then, Dad?" It came out an accusation. He didn't hear the justifications, because the memories popped up again and drowned the old man out.

The game. Another kid. A bully. Stepping between Steven and the punk with the attitude. Feeling scared, but not showing it. Aaron. How he had hated that little creep.

It ended and he found himself staring at his father, who was staring back, having run out of words. He shrugged irritably. This was getting him nowhere. He had a case to work. He tried a smile, gave it up as a bad deal, and pocketed the picture. It might come in handy.

Gratefully escaping his father's house, shivering a little at how the emotion hadn't changed in the last thirty years, he sped to the station. He had to get back to work. Part of his mind whispered that he had to get back to _Sandburg_, maybe the kid could make some sense of this. He sure as hell couldn't.

Things went from bad to worse. Simon almost pulled him, but the strangler had already made it personal, and he was on the case whether he was assigned it or not. Blair backed him up all the way, and he was grateful for the support. He was feeling a little rocky ever since seeing his Dad. But weakness admitted was weakness exploited, a lesson he'd learned the hard way at a very young age. So he'd contented himself with a light touch to Sandburg's arm, a reconnection, a grounding. It helped.

He didn't look too closely at _why_ it helped.

No time to go there. Not now. Maybe not ever.

They headed out on a lead, a guy who'd been working with McCaine, to find out who the dead professor might have stumbled upon that had opened up this can of worms and cost him his life. Coming in the door, he'd sensed something off, and tried to get Blair behind him. As usual, his attempts at protection were stumped by the unbound enthusiasm of his partner. Barking at the kid to stay put, he followed a shadow out around the corner into a railway yard.

He had the man in his sights when it hit him again, harder than ever. Horror, loss, grief, anger tumbled through him, paralyzing him, making him vulnerable to danger. The body in the woods had a face, and two mouths, the open one pulled back in a scream that no one had heard, the other below the chin, drenched in blood. He could smell the blood, the grass, the bark, the weird smell that didn't belong, like the blood didn't belong.

Carl Haidash was Bud.

Memory collided with the present as strong fingers dug into his skin, and a harsh voice whispered in his ear. "You're mine, Ellison. You lose. We got a score to settle." Weak sunlight glinted off the knife heading for his throat, and survival instincts kicked in, muscle memory fighting off the attack. His hands reached out, wrapped around the wrist holding the knife, and twisted. He could hear his pulse in his ears, and he lost his grip on the killer as his eyes fritzed out completely and his fingers went numb. The rusty squeal of wheels on track finally cut through the confusion, as a train, released from its moorings, lurched toward him. He scrambled for enough control to throw himself out of the way, then lay there for a long moment, panting, trying to figure out just what the hell was happening to him.

"_Jim_!" Sandburg's voice, Sandburg's feet nearly skidding out from under him as he careened around the side of the train car and threw himself at Jim, Sandburg's warm hands cradling his head. It felt incredibly good. The pressure behind his eyes eased off, and he was finally able to wrestle some control back over his senses. The gravel digging into his side didn't feel like nails any more. His heartbeat was back in his chest where it belonged, and his partner's voice was getting all the dials back down where they belonged.

"I'm fine, Sandburg," he rasped out, but he didn't pull away, and when those hands drew back from cradling his head, he put his own up to grab hold of them. Using the excuse that he was still wobbly from the near escape, he held on to his partner for balance, and kept an arm slung around the younger man's shoulders all the way back into the office. Blair let him, didn't seem to mind. He stayed that way until forensics got there.

The next day was a jumble, memories fusing with facts mingling with new developments until a clear picture finally emerged. He forced himself to return to his father's house, picking the old man's brain for what few clues were there, given the total lack of interest the man had shown when Jim was a kid. Of course, when they found a clue, it was related to business. But it was enough. They were able to identify Mick Foster as Scott Jeffries, and a pattern began to emerge. Other things came to the surface, too, and the anger mushroomed as he remembered the rest of the fall out from Bud's murder.

_'I know what I saw!'_ Too young to understand willful ignorance, too frustrated to let it go in silence. The need for justice for Bud too strong to just give it up. _'I can see things, and hear things, Dad!'_ His father glaring down at him, shaking him, telling him it was nonsense, not to be stupid. Telling him to wise up, stop making things up, or everybody would think he was some kind of freak. The voices echoed in his head, and he had to explain, again.

"I have a gift, Dad. It can be a burden, sometimes. But it's who I am." Why couldn't you accept me as I am? Why did you teach me that being myself meant being a freak? Why did you make me believe that my abilities, who I was, all of it, was a big lie?

"I always knew you were special, Jimmy, but the world doesn't like people who are different. I didn't want you to be hurt."

Stone silence.

He'd known. His father had known, and had done it to him anyway.

He watched his father wander out of the room in search of a glass of water, and didn't know whether to hit something, throw up, or yell at somebody. His eyes bounced around the room, desperate for distraction, trying to slow his spinning thoughts. Finally his gaze fell on the old photo album his dad had left sitting on the table. Idly, he flipped at the cover, then froze.

Photos. Clippings. His wedding photo with Carolyn, from the newspaper. The Plummer family had made sure it got in; he was sort of a celebrity. His dad hadn't gotten it from him, that was for damned sure. Write ups from different newspapers in Cascade and Seattle, national stories dating from his rescue from Peru, his first big case, his Cop of the Year award. God, every time a journalist mentioned his name it was cut out and carefully mounted on a page. It was bizarre. His mind refused to accept the degree of fascination his father apparently had in him as an adult, when the interest had been so absent as a child, and he escaped back into work. Flipping open his cell phone, he dialed Simon.

"Captain, I've got a link here. Mick Foster is Scott Jeffries. Could you run a check on Aaron Foster for me? I think he might be our killer."

His dad came into the room, and he made his good-byes quickly, anxious to get out of there. He didn't need Sentinel hearing to pick up the mutter about "used to be my excuse." He couldn't quite decide if that was disappointment in his dad's voice, and right about then he didn't have time to try to figure it out.

He told himself he was relieved. Then he got too busy to think about it.

Events escalated as it all came to a head, and Aaron made his end run. Sally was terrified, his Dad was brutalized, and in a weird replay where past collided with present, he tackled the bastard again. This time the stakes were higher; this time he was stopping a killer, not winning a championship. But the results were the same. And this time, he had someone to share the triumph with. Not his dad. It had felt good, in an alien sort of way, to hug his dad and make sure the old man was all right. But it was the light of approval and affection in Sandburg's eyes that made him feel good clear through. It clicked everything back in place, the way it should have been all along. For a second, he had the wistful thought that he wished he'd met Blair years ago, when he was a kid, and they'd been able to deal with this all along. Then he chuckled as reality hit. A baby wouldn't have done much good to a headstrong ten year old and his oblivious father.

"What's up, man?" Sandburg gave him a questioning glance, grinning along with him even without being in on the joke.

"Just relief, Chief," he shrugged, but gave the kid a one-armed hug anyway. Turning from that comforting warmth, unsettled by how grounded he felt by that touch, he put a steadying arm around his dad's waist and helped him back to the truck. "Catch a ride with Simon?" he tossed over his shoulder. Sandburg beamed at him.

"Sure thing, man, look after your Dad."

"Thanks, Jimmy," his father said as Jim settled him into the passenger seat. Not knowing quite what to say, he just nodded and shut the door, stretching some of the kinks out of his back before climbing behind the wheel. The drive back to the house was a quiet one.

"You okay, dad?" The bruises were starting to come through clearly. Even without using Sentinel sight, the old man was a mess.

"So the paramedic said," his father returned dryly, before turning his head and staring at Jim. "I should be asking you that, Jimmy."

"I'm fine," he answered automatically. He glanced sideways at the older man. Faded blue eyes stared back unblinkingly. "What?" He found himself getting irritated again, and concentrated on his driving.

"Nothing." But it was something, Jim could hear it in his voice. After a short pause, his father started speaking again. "Your partner seems like a nice kid. Sort of wild looking for a policeman, though."

Jim didn't answer until they were on the walk on the way up to the front door. "He's not."

William pushed the door open and looked over his shoulder at his son. "Not? Who's not what?"

"My partner's not a policeman." There was another uncomfortable silence as they continued into the living room. Jim watched his father trying to get his mind around the concept, and let him stew on it for awhile. Let him think whatever he wanted to think. He stared out through the side window as William went into the kitchen and poured coffee. Following the old man's progress with his hearing, he could almost hear his dad thinking.

"Then what is he?" William finally managed to ask when he returned to the living room.

Jim settled onto the couch cushions and accepted the cup of coffee. "My partner." His dad sat on the other end of the couch and stared at him. Taking pity on the total confusion he read in his dad's face, Jim gave a pithy explanation. "Anthropologist. Studying 'freaks' like me. Helps me deal with my senses. Keeps me from going nuts. He's my partner." He didn't understand the relief that crossed his dad's face.

"Oh. Okay." They sat in silence, until Jim started to fidget.

"Why?" he finally asked. "What did you think he was? A vice cop?"

"Well, I wasn't sure," his dad answered haltingly. "You said partner, but he wasn't a cop. And he's … I guess pretty's the wrong word, but he's not a normal-guy-looking man." He took a quick sip of his coffee and stared into the cup, not looking up at Jim. "And you did get divorced rather quickly from Carolyn. Now, you two are very close. I could tell by the way you were touching him, the way he looked at you."

Conflicting reactions kept Jim frozen in place. "So," he asked quietly, staring holes through his father's down-bent head, "what, you think, because he's got long hair and earrings, he's got to be gay? And because I'm a failure in the relationship department, something I come by honestly," with a pointed look at the naked ring finger that hadn't worn a wedding ring since his mother left, "I'm queer, too?"

William's head came up and he stared at Jim, looking a little anxious. "No, no, that's not it. I just didn't know where he fit, Jimmy. I'm not accusing you of anything!"

Jim studied the earnest expression staring back at him, and wondered at the unexpected, nearly overpowering urge he had to laugh. He'd felt protective and righteously angry at the implied slight to Blair, especially given his partner's ability to get a date with a marble statue. And get the statue to spread her legs. But when the accusation, however quickly denied, was about himself, it seemed funny. Not because it was so obviously bullshit.

Because maybe, just maybe, it might not be.

Well. He hid his grin behind the rim of his cup. Hell of a bunch of revelations this case was turning out to be.

His dad mistook the relaxation for forgiveness and quickly changed the subject. "Glad that's cleared up. And I'm glad that you've got a friend on your side in this, Jimmy. It can't be easy."

At that, he lost the grin, and the anger, even the last remnants of frustration. Suddenly, he was completely exhausted. "It never was." Setting his cup on the coffee table, he pushed himself off the soft cushions. "Let me know how Sally's doing, okay, dad? And call me if you need me. I have to go. Paperwork," he offered the short explanation on the way to the door. In truth, he just had to get away from there. Go home.

To Sandburg.

His mind chased itself around in circles on the drive back to the loft until he gave himself a headache. This case had dug up a lot of stuff, things he'd just as soon not have remembered. Not Bud -- his friendship had been a gift, and he appreciated the chance to remember that. But other things. Rejection, first of his talents by his father, then by himself, in response to his father's reaction. Loss, for the first time, of the only person who'd actually encouraged him to be himself. Had Bud been a Guide? Of a sort? He'd certainly seemed to understand what was going on in Jim's mind, and had done his best to bring his potential out. Maybe just a mentor -- but in the environment he'd grown up in, there was no _just_ about that.

Where did that leave him now? He felt raw, open in a way he hadn't since he was a kid. All his experience, all his training, screamed at him to shut down, to pull back, rebuild the defenses before he got the shit kicked out of him. In the middle of the call for full scale retreat, a tiny voice was calmly, logically telling him to shut the fuck up and go listen to his partner. Blair would know how to handle this. Blair _always_ knew what to do. Even if Jim didn't want to admit it. Didn't want to have that kind of reliance on another person. Especially a person with the proven flaky qualities of his partner.

Not that it helped. The reliance was already there. Had been from the start. Jim was a protector, trained from the time he was a kid looking after his baby brother to take care of those weaker than himself. The fact that Sandburg didn't often let him look after him didn't lessen the instinct. And it seemed particularly strong with his partner, too, in a way it wasn't with anyone else.

That scared him even more than the reliance.

He looked up at the light coming from the windows of their apartment, only then realizing that he'd been sitting in the parking lot staring up at the window for god knew how long. That prompted another line of thought. How long had it been _'their'_ instead of _'his'_? When had his life stopped being his and become so tangled up with another person's that he couldn't tell the difference between the two? His dad had a point. He was all the time touching Blair. Leaning into him. Crowding him, even. But the kid didn't protest. Seemed to expect it, in fact. And Jim needed that contact. It anchored him, kept him focused.

Staring at the whites of his knuckles as he clenched the steering wheel, he wondered with a touch of panic when reliance had changed to need. And why he hadn't noticed at the time.

And why he was noticing _now_.

Peeling his fingers one at a time away from the hard plastic, he forced himself to go up to his … _their_ home. Walls were slamming up in his mind stronger than armor plating on a tank, but he had the nasty suspicion it was too little, too late. Then the door swung open in front of him, he saw the bright, open smile on his partner's face, that warm voice pouring question after question at him, deft hands stripping his jacket from him and pressing a beer in his hand, and he took a deep breath.

Much too little. Much too late.

The dragon was in the keep on the wrong side of the drawbridge.

"It went fine, Chief," he inserted into the torrent of questions, and headed over to flop on the couch. Without asking, seeming to know by instinct what was needed, Sandburg came up behind him and started to rub the knots out of his neck and shoulders. As the strong fingers dug in, a groan nearly escaped clenched teeth.

"C'mon, man, this is s'posed to relax you, not make you even tighter. You're one big muscle cramp, Jim. Just take it easy, let it all hang out, let it go, man." The voice continued on, quietly, in perfect time with the hands working magic on his shoulders, and his head fell forward.

"Thanks," he managed, staring down at the beer bottle balanced on his knee, at the pattern in the throw rug under his feet, at anything but the bulge that was coming up in his pants.

Christ. The power of suggestion. Thanks, dad, he thought wryly.

Shifting unobtrusively, he brought the cold bottle against his crotch, and almost whimpered, dialing down his sense of touch immediately. The frosty glass had felt like a branding iron against his erection, perversely making him harder. Or maybe that was the feel of Sandburg's hands smoothing over his head.

"What are you doing?" He tried to snap, but he felt too good to put much bite in it. The stroking didn't pause.

"Scalp massage, Jim. Feels good, doesn't it? My friend Cindy does these, at health fairs and at the natural remedies store where she works. Felt so great I asked her to show me how to do it. Relaxes you down to the core, and you, my friend, need some deep relaxing."

Jim almost told him that his core was anything but relaxed, but he bit his tongue until he tasted blood to keep the words back. His eyes closed, and he concentrated on not saying anything, just turning into a puddle of mush under the kid's talented hands and thinking about polar ice caps to try to get his cock to subside. Gradually, he tuned back into the voice behind him, responding to the gentle understanding in Blair's words.

"I know this must have been hard on you, bringing up all this stuff from your childhood. Threatening your family. Being targeted like that. It must have been really tough, but it's good that you were able to connect with your Dad like that. Saved his life, and maybe there's hope for the future, you know?"

"I know, Sandburg," he cut in. "But right now all I want is to finish this beer and go to bed. Okay?"

With a final pat that felt oddly like a caress, Blair stopped massaging him and slid over the back of the couch to plop down beside him. "I hear that. Been a long day. Longer for you than me, and I'm wiped, man. You must be totally wasted."

Jim found himself smiling, at peace with the world, completely content to be exactly where he was. "Totally," he teased, then drained the last few swallows from the bottle and pulled himself up from the couch. Tossing the bottle into the recycle bag on his way to the stairs, he called, "'night, Chief."

He felt Blair's eyes on him, smiling at him, all the way up to bed.

That feeling of contentment lasted until he fell asleep, and the dreams started.

He was in the damned jungle again, and the cat was there. Only this time, the animal was ignoring him. It was peering into the underbrush, watching with a hunter's intent concentration, tracking something Jim couldn't see.

As the thought crossed his mind, suddenly, he _could_ see … because he was the cat. The wet underbrush snagged on his belly fur, and his ears twitched at the rustle in the leaves ahead of him. A flash of white, gray, deep blue fire … something moving with grace but no attempt at stealth through the vines ahead. A compulsion took him to follow, and he was on the move, slinking low to the ground, silent as a shadow. The light colored blur ahead moved faster, and he responded in kind, until they were practically skimming the jungle floor, weaving in and out of the trees in a dizzying dance.

They broke through into a clearing, the unexpected light blinding him to the form of the animal he had been hunting. When his vision cleared, it was gone, but a temple stood there. A figure, some sort of half cat, half man creature, stood at the door to the temple, and he reared back on his hind paws, instinctively lashing out. The cat's head howled at him, welcome, not challenge, and the door disappeared, along with the strange mutated being.

He stretched out a paw, only to see it transform to a hand mid-reach. Then he was inside, somehow, without walking, and he was lying on his side, staring into deep blue eyes, staring back at him. Laughing, but somber beneath the laughter, glittering at him. Blair's eyes. Blair's hands reaching out to him.

Blair's mouth covering his own.

Those strong hands held him, turned him onto his back, and he felt the warm weight as Blair climbed on top of him, lying full length against him. They were naked, and it felt like every nerve ending was bare as well, as if his skin had been abraded and his flesh was nothing but one huge sensory receptor. He could feel the whorl of each finger pad as Blair ran his hands over his chest, his torso, along his flanks, up his back. Tiny pinpricks of sensation were the taste buds on Blair's tongue as his neck was licked; flashes of sharp fire were the trail Blair's teeth left as they scored along his jaw, closed over his pulse point. Crisp body hair brushed up against him, and he could feel each one, a thousand, a million lashes of electricity against his skin. A voice that sounded like Blair's told him to dial it down, but he was flying on it, couldn't have stopped it if he tried.

So he didn't try.

Lips left his ear and latched on to his, tongue invading his mouth, stealing his breath. He gasped in through his nose, and the scent overwhelmed him, made him drunk. Musk, pheromones, spices, oil -- he flew higher, and his body writhed closer, trying to devour Blair as he himself was being devoured. The taste of Blair exploded across his tongue, following Blair's tongue, and he wanted more. Sucking, moaning, he arched under the weight pressing into his groin. His eyes squeezed shut, his mouth strained open, and he came, flying so high he flew apart.

As he slowly came down, he was disoriented for a wild moment, senses completely off line. He stretched out his hearing and found his anchor, the strong, steady beat of his partner's heart.

Too steady. Too calm.

Too far away.

With a start he sat bolt upright in bed. His own bed. Alone. Sandburg was downstairs.

Of course.

He dabbed at the semen spread across his belly and grimaced. There was something a little too Freudian, in a reverse gender sort of way, about his father making him realize that he found his partner attractive. And as for the panther … god only knew what that crazy cat was trying to tell him. One thing was for damned sure. He couldn't let Sandburg find out about this.

Not that he was afraid the kid would be turned off by it, or threatened by it. But he had a good thing going with his guide, and he wasn't going to let hormones fuck it up. He'd seen how Blair was with his women, and he knew his own track record with relationships. The Sentinel - Guide connection was too important. It had to be his primary consideration. He'd do like he had with every guy he'd found attractive since he was fourteen.

He'd ignore it.

The thought stopped him in his tracks.

Every guy he'd found attractive? Since when had he found _guys_ attractive?

Staring at a crinkle in the sheet, he had another vivid flashback. He was a freshman in high school, defensive lineman on the J.V. team. Best friend was a kid named Rob, a little shorter than he was, just as tired of home, caught up in football, and curious as he was. They hung around together, got into trouble together, studied together, dreamed together. One night over geometry, they'd gotten bored and started to wrestle. For once, Rob pinned Jim. Then he kissed him. Startled the hell out of both of them. Being pubescent boys, it also made them hornier than hell.

Flash forward, a couple weeks of furtive groping and helpless cracking up later. Sunday afternoon at his house, Dad supposed to be gone on yet another business trip, Stevie out with the Cub scouts. All alone in his bedroom. With Rob. Nobody to bother them, nobody to interrupt them. First time he ever had his hand wrapped around another guy's penis. Shot off like a Roman Candle, got all ready to do it again, and this time, as he came and came hard, his father exploded into the room like a pissed off grizzly. Screamed at the both of them, popped him so hard he saw stars, threw Rob out almost before the other boy had time to get his pants back up. Then his dad had laid into him, not so much with his hand, as with his tongue. Told him what kind of a freak he was, what sort of a pervert he was, how stupid and wrong and filthy he was.

It hadn't felt filthy. Not at the time. But afterward …

Funny the things you block out. He pushed at the crinkle, slowly flattening it out, smoothing the sheet. He'd never been attracted to guys, although he hadn't hated men who were. Just hadn't had the itch. Hadn't been particularly successful with keeping a lady, either. Maybe there was a connection there.

He had an itch now. He stared off into the room, listening to Sandburg breathing, for a long time. Then he shrugged.

Repression might not be very healthy, but it certainly worked. This was one itch he didn't dare scratch. It had only been his father, the first time. If he went with it, and Sandburg did too, it would be a whole hell of a lot of other people. Worse of all, and of over-riding importance -- he could lose his partner. Would lose him, if his usual luck held out.

Nope. Wasn't worth the risk.

Decision made, he padded downstairs silently, cleaned himself up, balled the soiled boxers up and buried them in the bottom of the hamper. Pausing outside his partner's room, he listened to the sounds of Sandburg sleeping for a little while, somehow reassured by the normal sighs, muffled snorts and shifting, burrowing noises. Then he climbed back up the stairs, changed his sheets, lay back down, and stared at the ceiling the rest of the night.

_'Don't fuck it up'_ became his motto for the next few weeks. Sandburg didn't seem to notice anything wrong, but Jim felt the pressure building. Which might have explained Lila.

Then again, maybe it wouldn't. Maybe that was just the insanity kicking in again.

He'd only really had a week with Lila Hobson, and Bali was a place that pretty well infused anything that happened there with romance. Not that he considered himself much of a romantic, but something about her made his brain go off line and his hormones stand at attention. Distracted as he was by Buddhist monks dropping like flies, opium paste overdoses, and Lila changing her mind every time he turned around, Jim spent most of the week feeling like he was on a roller coaster.

Having his senses go haywire hadn't helped.

He asked Blair, near the beginning of the latest round of madness that was his life, if the kid had ever met a woman who, under different circumstances, could have been 'the one'. Sandburg had stared at him, then through him, and quietly said that he hadn't. But there'd been something there. Something Blair wouldn't say. Something Jim had a hunch he needed to hear.

Then they'd been interrupted by a monk with doctored prayer beads, and he'd woken up in the hospital feeling like a truck had run over his head. He could feel his pulse in his tongue, his eyeballs felt like spikes had been driven through them, and his hands and feet were tingling so fiercely he wished they _were_ numb. When they finally let him go and he and Blair got back to the loft, the orchids he'd sent Lila were propped up against the door. He guessed that meant it was no, this particular minute. Blair came up close behind him. Jim managed not to lean back into his partner's warmth -- by the skin of his teeth. It felt too good.

"Why don't I just get some popcorn and a movie? Sam and I can come back here, you know, keep you company?"

He could easily read the concern in those big blue eyes, and the temptation to grab him and kiss him senseless bushwhacked Jim. He closed his eyes, picked up the lilies, and used them as a shield, thrusting them toward Blair. "No, you go ahead. Have some fun. Give these to Sam." Go. Now. Before I forget that it's Lila I think I might be in love with and do something criminally stupid. Happily, Blair took the hint.

All he wanted by that point was a little rest. Unfortunately, every time he closed his eyes, that damned cat was back. He was relieved by the knock on the door. Surprised to find Lila on the other side.

Okay. Guess the no was back to yes.

He opened the door, and let her inside.

She was upset, and fighting demons she wouldn't let him see. Frankly, he was too tired by then to care, much. But she meant something to him, even if he couldn't quite figure out what, and when she turned to him for comfort he gave it to her. His sight went off the map, and that fucker with the jackhammer was back working on the inside of his skull, but he responded to her need and pushed through the disorienting mess that passed for his senses these days.

There was something comforting in being able to put his body on automatic and shut his mind off. She was soft, and wet, and there was a desperate edge to her loving. Her skin shivered under his touch, and he mapped every tiny jolt through her muscles, tuning into her reactions to the exclusion of everything else. His fingers twined with hers, and he held her gently, completely, turning her inside out with his touch.

Opening his senses to her as much as he dared, he inhaled deeply, enjoying a heady combination of musk and desire. He burrowed between her thighs and licked, delicately then more strongly, until she writhed under his mouth. When she had come twice, and was panting and moaning above his head, he rose above her and entered her, licking the taste of her from his lips, painting her breasts with the moisture smeared across his cheeks.

Her thighs parted and long, slender legs wrapped around his hips, pulling him in harder, deeper. He lay more fully across her, letting go of her hands to wrap his fists in her hair and pull her face up to his, then following her down to the mattress. She convulsed under him a third time, and he let the warm movements around him pull his own orgasm from him. Kissing her deeply, her taste magnifying in his mouth, he slowed and gradually withdrew.

Leaning over her to toss the used condom in the trash can next to the bed, he could feel her heart slamming into her chest, hear the labored rasp of her breath in her lungs. Her body was trembling, and she burrowed into his arms. He responded with typical protectiveness, cuddling her near, soothing her with long strokes of his hands along her back, up and down, until she finally fell asleep.

Lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling with sight that made the shadows as bright as daylight, he wondered how he could lie next to a woman after loving her unconscious, her scent in his head, her taste still coating his tongue, and think about Blair Sandburg.

Daylight was breaking through the window before he finally hid his face in her hair and fell asleep, still wondering.

Reality hit with the force of a sucker punch to the gut. She was off and flying down the stairs as Blair was letting himself in and Jim was trying to get his pants on.

Guess the sex hadn't been as great as he'd thought. She was back to no again. Lila was out the door before he could get his shoes tied, and Blair was grilling him about the previous night's activities. He came up with something, he didn't know what, too distracted by Sam's smell on Blair's skin and Lila's on his own to notice. Until Blair asked, voice scaling up to match his eyebrows, "You took _pictures_?" Then he ran the conversation back in his mind and almost laughed.

Almost.

Blair's face changed when he reached up to rub at the pain that still lingered behind his left eye. Persistent as a terrier again, Jim was finally worn down and admitted that his senses were still giving him hell. All sympathy and concerned logic, Sandburg pointed out that the spikes only hit him when he was with Lila. "You think, maybe, you might be in love?"

Jim just looked at him. For a second, he felt like he was in a comic strip, and a light bulb had just been drawn over his head. Hell, yes, he was in love.

But he had a bad feeling it didn't have anything to do with Lila.

He shrugged off the question, and they headed into the station, Sandburg surprisingly quiet beside him. Jim knew he should dig a little, find out what had his partner thinking so hard, but his head was still hurting, and he took the peace for the gift it was. Several times Blair started to say something, then stopped. Finally he just sort of leaned over, invading Jim's personal space the way Jim usually invaded Blair's. It felt good. Neither of them said a word.

Later that day, he tracked Lila down, and to his surprise her answer stayed no. Determined to get to the bottom of her wild mood swings, and trying to keep his mind off his partner, he was ambushed by another sensory migraine while following her up a flight of stairs. The world tipped on its axis, his hands went numb, and everything he saw melted, blending into everything else until the world seemed like a watercolor left out in the rain, all the paint running together. Sounds rippled through his ears, and he knew she was talking to him, there was urgency in her voice. Before he could even try to respond to it, something took hold of him and tossed him against the wall. The pain reverberated through his skull, mixing with the sounds he was tasting and the sights he could smell. He had no hope of defending himself against an attacker he couldn't sense, and curled into a fetal ball, instinctively trying to protect the soft spots. Then the pain was gone, and the sensory spikes were gone. He could feel the ground beneath his cheek, feel the bruises coming up on his body.

Lila was gone.

So was his attacker.

He pulled himself painfully to his feet and headed back to his truck. This was getting pretty damned tiresome.

Simon gave him a look that would cut glass, but he managed to pass it off as nothing important. He was mildly amused when his boss called his partner back in and grilled him on Jim's condition. Listening in, he had to agree that the sensory spikes were somehow connected with what was happening with Lila, but he couldn't help thinking that she was secondary. What was happening with Blair, or rather, what _wasn't_ happening with Blair, was more to the point. He hurried to look busy when Sandburg left Simon's office. Before either of them could say a word, the phone rang.

Lila.

It was back to yes.

Damned tiresome.

As an afterthought, he tossed his jacket to Blair before he left. "See if forensics can get any prints off this, Chief."

All the way to the Chinese gardens he argued with himself. Was it Lila? Was he in love with her? It didn't sound right. Didn't _feel_ right. He'd always known himself pretty well, or thought he did. All kinds of things were coming to the surface lately, but still, he trusted his instincts. And right now his instincts were arguing with one another. Part of him wanted to go to Lila, get her out of whatever the hell kind of trouble she was in, try and see if they could make a go of it. Another part of him was telling him to run far and fast, away from Lila and straight to Blair. Blair wouldn't say no.

He might laugh, might not believe it, and might ask what sort of mushrooms Jim had put on his sandwich that afternoon. But he wouldn't say no.

His headache was back by the time he parked the truck, and he ruthlessly squashed all the voices yelling at him. Later. Not now. No time for it now.

Jim wasn't in any mood for more wishy washy yes-no-maybes, and this time when Lila spun a tale of a jealous fiancé and an over-protective bodyguard, he simply told her that it was nuts, they should end it right then and there. Turning on his heel, he left her still talking to his back. He had work to do.

That, at least, made sense.

Monk number three had come in from the cold, and they made good use of him. He fingered Tate as the head man for a drug ring centered in Cascade under the aegis of the Shang syndicate, and he and Blair dirtied themselves up and made like winos in a back alley waiting to bust him. The wait was pure torture. It wasn't the cold, or even Sandburg's whining about the cold. Wasn't the smells that assaulted him and threatened to turn the mild headache into a skull-crusher. It was the proximity of temptation. He wanted Blair Sandburg, and it was threatening every ounce of self possession and independence he had.

Of course he was grumpy about it.

Then when the bust went to shit, and his senses freaked out until his eyeballs felt like they were exploding, and Tate got whacked, and he couldn't stop the killing or the killer.

Grumpy degenerated into snarling in the blink of one watering eye.

His mood wasn't improved by another sleepless night of listening to Blair breathe. Every time the kid moved, he could trace the shifting of the sheet over his body, hear the cotton catching on his chest hair, practically see the skin and muscle sliding around in the material trapping it, sigh in relief along with Blair when the sheet was finally kicked off.

Then the shivering started, and he clenched his own blanket in his fists until Blair, still asleep, burrowed back under the covers. Kept him from going downstairs and using a little old fashioned body heat to warm the kid up.

Brown bouncing all over the fucking bullpen didn't do a thing to make him feel cheerier. If anything, it just pissed him off. The fact that the news he brought tied Lila into the murders of the monks didn't make him happy either. Lila was tied up with Lo Min, who'd beaten the shit out of him the previous day, who was tied to Tate who got murdered, who was tied to the whole drug smuggling ring.

If he hadn't already had a headache, this would have given him one.

Then, of course, Sandburg had to be helpful, and point out that the last monk was still a target. Which led to a lovely dog and pony show all through Chinatown, which of course blew up in their faces. He ran through the crowded streets on the trail of their terrified monk, dodging pedestrians, trying to keep the guy in line of sight, which was a trick when his sight was bugging out on him. He did manage to get there in time to stop the man from being stabbed, but he couldn’t take down the would-be killer, because the world melted again, and he was tasting sounds, and he was dog meat waiting to be slaughtered. To his immense surprise, the knife didn't fall, and his back-up got there in time to see the assassin roar away. Leaving him empty handed. Again.

Sandburg cannoned into his back, and Jim reached back instinctively to steady him. His hands reacted like they'd hit glue when they came in contact with Blair's skin, and he could feel his fingers not wanting to let go. Blaming the sensory spike, he gave in to the demands of his body and leaned against his partner as long as he could get away with it. Then he gritted his teeth, ignored the throbbing echoing in both his head and his groin, and headed back to work.

He never knew how they made it home, but next thing that made any sense didn't make much at all. He was sitting at the table in the loft, Simon pushing a cup of coffee at him, Sandburg trying to get him to look at a picture one of his academic buddies had sent over. Every time he tried to look at the picture, the jackhammer would go off behind his eyes, all the colors he could see turned into a kaleidoscope, his stomach tried to crawl out his throat again, and the air felt purple. Glancing away from the picture that he couldn't focus on, he stared at what should have been nothing, but he could see all the dust motes dancing in the air, and could follow the air waves brushing against his skin. They were purple in the dim light, and he could actually _feel_ the color purple.

Shaking off the weird sensation, not about to share it with Sandburg for fear of what the kid would do to measure this new ability to feel colors, Jim forced himself to follow his partner's urging and try to figure out why the dagger should give him a hangover without the benefit of any booze. Ignoring the strong urge to add a dash of whiskey to the coffee rapidly going cold in front of him, he tripped off down memory lane.

Son of a _bitch_.

It was the smell that tripped the memories. He hadn't done the laundry yet, and he could still smell Lila on the sheets that were stuffed in the hamper less than twenty feet away. The smell of her, the shape of the dagger, the tactile impression of her skin beneath his fingertips, the taste of her mouth … getting ready, reluctantly, to leave bed, that last night in Bali. Scrabbling through her handbag to find her lipstick. Finding something else instead.

She kept it to protect herself.

So she said.

She lied.

He found himself reaching out with his senses toward Blair, replacing her scent with his, calling up every memory he had of touching Blair's face, his hair, patting his back, holding him closely, no matter for how short a period of time. He purged her from his system so hard and so fast he nearly choked.

When he could breathe again, he looked up at his partner and his captain. The phone rang before he could do much explaining, then, once again, there was no time to explain.

He did the best he could, told her to turn herself in, agreed to meet with her, was doing his best. Then the spike hit again, as his instincts told him to get out of there and he ignored them once more. He found himself dodging bullets, calling out to her as she ran, screaming at her, don't be an idiot, get back here. Swinging out, drawing fire. Protective instinct strong, even toward this one, who was a threat, but who had not been able to hurt him. His bullet went true, even through the pounding headache threatening to rip his brain apart.

So did Lo Min's.

The headache disappeared as quickly as it had appeared, and he ran to her side. Quick check to the carotid artery, pulse fluttering, fading, light dying from her eyes. He knelt there, her blood soaking into his pants legs, staining his knees through the cloth, and gradually went numb.

It wasn't the waste. It wasn't the lost chance he might have had with her, that she might have had to make a new life for herself. It was the fact that he had failed, because he hadn't cared enough to try harder. And the knowledge, hard on the heels of that fact, that he wouldn't do a damned thing differently if he had it to do all over again.

There was a hesitant touch to his shoulder, feather light, there, then gone. Jim stared down at the corpse splayed out at his feet and bowed his head. So much pressure, so much confusion. So many possibilities, and he had a bad feeling none of the best ones were ever going to happen. The second time that touch came, he looked up into his partner's concerned face. For once, Sandburg was completely quiet. He was communicating Jim's way, through proximity and touch. And Jim soaked it up.

It didn’t stop the numbness. But it made him feel a little warmer.

Eventually the ambulance got there. No need to hurry with her already gone. Blair drove them both home, Simon waving him off to fill out the paperwork the next morning. No hurry there, either. Everybody, but everybody, in this case was dead. Except the third monk, and he'd be on his way back to Hong Kong for trial in a few days. Tate, Lo, both the Buddhist brothers, and now Lila. Stone cold dead.

He shivered, and was starting to noticeably shake by the time Blair guided him upstairs. Waving off offers of soup, tea, coffee, a fire, an extra blanket, everything except what he really needed, he plodded upstairs. Stripped off his clothes. Fell in bed.

Wished Blair was up there with him.

He really was cold.

Jim didn't remember falling asleep, but the next thing he knew it was six in the morning. He rolled out of bed, feeling twice his natural age and ready to be put out to pasture. He needed a vacation. From his life. Desperately.

Knowing what his partner's reaction would be if Blair found out he was running, he took the coward's way out for the first time in his life, and waited until they were both at the station. Simon immediately started making plans to go fishing. Sandburg simply stood there and stared at him.

"Jim?" he asked quietly. Jim tried to hide from those bright piercing eyes. He couldn't. Par for the course.

"Yeah?" he growled. It was a pretty weak attempt at a growl.

"Let's go to lunch."

That stopped the captain mid-spate. "Lunch? I thought we were going fishing?"

"No, Simon," Blair answered, still looking straight at Jim. "_Jim_ was going fishing. _Alone_." He looked away toward Banks for a moment, and Jim remembered how to breathe. "He and I need to talk."

"Is this a Sentinel thing?" Simon asked suspiciously. Blair shook his head. Jim forgot how to breathe again.

"No. This is an Ellison thing." Those intense eyes swung back at him, pinning him to the wall again. "And we need to get it sorted out. He does have the time, doesn't he? I mean, the man never takes any time off. And he's due."

Banks nodded grudging agreement. "Nothing big on his plate. Go ahead and take some time, Jim." His gruff voice softened. "Been tough lately."

Understatement. Jim just nodded. Then shook his head. This wasn't what he needed. He needed to escape. Before he said something, did something, that gave himself away. He opened his mouth to protest, but nothing came out. Blair wrapped a hand around his arm and towed him out of the office, through the bullpen, down the elevator and into the parking garage. He still hadn't found his vocabulary. He was too busy hiding his incipient panic.

The ride up the elevator at the apartment building was quiet. When they got in the loft, he kept his keys. Turning, he stopped at the sight of Blair spread out against the door, blocking his escape. Jim's tongue flicked over his lips. Too tempting.

He was too close to the edge. Control was about to snap.

His mouth opened and words started falling out. To his surprise, he could babble almost as well as Sandburg when he had to. "What does a guy have to do to get a little time alone, here, Chief? You know, I was a big boy before you found me, and I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself. All I want to do is go to this little town up north I go to when I want to get away and spend some time fishing and get my shit together. Alone. Where I'm not Simon's bull dog or your test case or anybody's savior."

In the quiet that followed, he could hear Blair swallowing, once, twice, before the younger man could say anything. "Is that how you feel, Jim? I'm in the way? I only see you as my dissertation subject?"

Faced with the honest pain in his partner's face, Jim couldn't keep it up. He couldn't hurt Sandburg. Not even to save himself. "No, Blair," he answered softly. "It's not. But there are times when I have to … I was alone a lot before you came into my life. I lived alone, worked alone, spent a lot of time in silence."

Blair flinched, and Jim cursed himself under his breath.

"Are you trying to tell me I talk too much?" There wasn't a hint of humor in the question.

"I like your voice. I like your presence." Like was such a weak word. "I love you." Oh, shit. That was a slip. Blair stared back at him seriously.

"I love you, too."

Oh. Good. Then maybe if Blair thought he meant fraternal, platonic sort of love, he'd be okay.

"Why are you running from me?"

Maybe not. "I'm not, Chief. I just need some down time, you know?" Please, please let me out of here before I crack. I will _never_ bring this up again as long as I live. It's dead and buried. I promise, if you'll just let me the hell _out_ of here.

Before Blair could answer, Jim felt the world tip, and some bastard shoved an ice pick through his left eye. Everything was distorted, as if he was underwater. His hands and feet went totally dead, and his tongue felt twice its size in his mouth. His eyes were wide open, and he couldn't see a fucking thing.

Jim made a noise then, Blair's name, or at least it was supposed to be a cry for his partner. Through several layers of cotton suddenly stuffed in his ears, it sounded like some sort of wounded animal bellowing. Then his balance gave, and he ended up curled up in a ball on the floor. Somebody was trying to rip his head off, and he couldn't feel his body, and he was floating in a black sea with no sound but the distant groaning echoing in his head.

He was more scared than he had ever been in his life, and so totally lost he knew he would never make it back. He fought harder, then, trying to find his anchor, knowing if he didn't, soon, he never would. The first indication he had that he was back in the world was a single point of pressure against his upper lip. There was no warmth, yet, but he knew something was there.

A finger.

Then another.

A third.

Motion. Circling the base of his skull. Reining in the fire in his brain.

Weight. Pressing against his chest. Diffusing the darkness pushing against him.

He raised dead arms and wrapped them clumsily around his life line.

Smell kicked back online, and he filled his head with shampoo and salt. Somebody was crying.

Damned well better not be him. He hadn't cried since he was fourteen.

Taste clicked into place with the salt on his tongue. Not tears, after all. Sweat.

Feeling came back with a vengeance, as the hand on his mouth suddenly burned him. He'd been licking the fingers, that's where the salt had come from. The groaning had died to a whimper, and over it he heard a gentle, panicked voice, and a well known heart beat, currently racing too fast for comfort. Hearing was back. Thank god.

He opened his eyes to find huge, worried azure ones staring back into his, not two inches away. Giving up on denial as being too damned painful to handle, he leaned forward, dodged the fingers falling from his lips, and kissed Sandburg.

Taste was not only on line, it was in over-drive. He found faint traces of algae, mint, baking soda, and coffee on his tongue. Not to mention Blair's tongue, pushing back at his own. He fell into the flavor and forgot everything until it dawned on him that not only was Blair not kissing him back, he was actively struggling to get free. Jim let go so fast they both nearly fell over, and Blair grabbed hold of him to keep his balance.

"Whoa, man, not so fast! I'm not complaining, I just need to breathe!" That was obvious from the gasps for breath he took in between the words. Jim could feel himself turning beet red. Everywhere.

"Sorry," he mumbled. Blair shook his forearm, hard, and moved up close to Jim again.

"I'm not."

Jim brought his head up to stare at his partner in shock. Blair _wasn't_? Why not? Why the hell _not_? _He_ was sorry!

Wasn't he?

Before he could sort it out, Blair grinned up at him and visibly bounced. "When I said I loved you, Jim, I meant it."

Jim opened his mouth to agree, to say he meant it too, that it was everything, but Blair's tongue in his mouth got in the way of his words. It was just as well. Jim had always spoken much more clearly with his body than with his mouth.

He was drowning again. This time, he remembered to breathe, once in awhile. They made it over to the couch, somehow, and his keys hit the floor somewhere on the journey. He wasn't going anywhere. Not now.

Not ever.

"How long?" he managed to ask before closing his teeth over the side of Blair's neck. A low chuckle rumbled past his ear.

"Forever, man. Been dropping hints like atom bombs for years. Thought you might be interested."

He nuzzled deeper, and could feel the vibrations of the words as they fluttered Blair's vocal chords. They tickled. He liked it.

"But you never took me up on it. So after awhile I figured it was just your way. With me, anyway." A hot mouth closed over his shoulder, and bit him through the cloth of his shirt. It felt like a brand. "Then, with Lila, I thought for sure that was it, I was history, no chance at all. 'Til you told Simon that you had to get away. And you wouldn't look at me."

Jim drew back then, stared down into hazy blue eyes, pupils so enlarged they nearly swallowed the irises. "Couldn't. Or I'd've lost my nerve."

He was rewarded for his honesty with another kiss that seared his taste buds. That was addictive.

"You scared the hell out of me, Jim, when you lost it like that." A hand came up and cupped the back of Jim's skull. He rubbed back into it, and Blair leaned forward to lick along the side of his mouth. "One minute you're fine, you're you, the next you go white as a ghost and curl up in a fetal position screaming your head off. What happened?" The hand never stopped stroking him.

"Tried to push it all the way down, Chief. Couldn't." The attempt had nearly destroyed him. "Guess repression doesn't work as well as it used to," he tried to joke. Blair nodded.

"Why'd you try, man? You know I love you." Another quick lean in, another lick, this time on the other side of his mouth. One of Blair's thumbs was running gently over the laugh lines at Jim's temple. Somewhere, somehow, that crazy cat was purring, he just knew it.

"Scared." A look of blatant disbelief met his confession. He nuzzled along the side of Blair's jaw and mouthed the earrings dangling from one lobe. "Really. Not good at this stuff." It was the best he could do. Sandburg knew all about his crappy track record. If he was willing to take the risk--

"I'm willing to take the risk."

Cripes. The kid was psychic now. Something in the words went straight to his gut, and broke through a wall he hadn't even known he'd had. Jim found himself kissing Blair voraciously, pouring all his need and his reliance and his long denied lust into the touch. Saying he loved him without saying a word.

His partner heard him clearly. He always did.

They struggled out of their clothes, not wanting to lose any more body contact than absolutely necessary. In less time than either would have thought possible and much too long to their minds, they were naked against one another. Jim nearly came the first time Blair blanketed him with his body. It was like his dream, only without the temple or the voyeurs, and it was too much. He was zoning on the warmth, zoning on the soft fur, zoning on the weight and the hands and the mouth. Dimly he realized that Blair knew precisely what was going on, and was pouring a litany of sound in his ear to counterbalance the sensory overload on his skin.

"So fucking beautiful, man. First time I ever saw you I thought, shit, Sandburg, you've hit the jackpot, but he's gotta be straight. Look at that jaw, look at that chest, look at that mouth, oh my god, look at those eyes." A strong, square palmed hand swept over his chest as Blair turned them on the couch and straddled him. The other hand cradled his erection, working it steadily, rubbing them together. His groin was on fire, matching the fire in his head, racing along his veins, burning him up everywhere he touched Blair.

"Legs like tree trunks, man, and of course you gotta run around in your shorts all the time. You think I don't notice? All that gorgeous skin, those incredible hands -- you know what it's like when you touch me? I live for that, man. All of you. That beautiful back, those shoulders, just want to run my tongue over every inch of your body, eat you one bite at a time."

He could barely manage a whimper in response, but his own hands were busy, mapping Blair's spine, the firm roundness of his buttocks, up into the springy curls at the back of his head. Jim wanted to kiss him but didn't dare interrupt the flow of words. It was the only thing keeping him from zoning on the pure sensation of Blair's hands on his body.

"And it's not just the package, man, oh, god, that's good. It's the man behind the eyes." Blair's voice was getting breathy as their thrusts sped up, but he kept going, both with his body and with his voice. Jim gave himself up to both. "Strong, but not hard, not at all, no way, man, you care. Jesus, Jim, you feel so incredible. You don't say much but when you do open yourself up to me, oh, Christ, yes, right there, come on! When you do, you show me your heart, and you just blow. Me. Away. God!"

Then it was too much, not enough, never enough, and he was flying again. Blair convulsed against him, bathing him in blood hot fluid, and he pulled that beautiful face down to his and covered that wide mouth with his own, swallowing the scream of completion that finally stopped the words. His own orgasm hit him, and he roared, head falling back against the couch cushions, Blair flopping limply on top his body.

He felt like he'd been boiled until he was boneless. He'd never felt so complete in his life.

Threading his fingers through Blair's hair, Jim gently lifted his partner's head until he could see his face. "You okay in there?" he asked the exhausted, glowing man sprawled across him.

"I love you." This time, Jim got it.

"Always." A commitment, not a question. Blair nodded.

"So. You wanna have some lunch, then do it all over again?" There were definite signs of life from the mid-quarters of both of them.

Jim couldn't help but grin his agreement. After all, he was on vacation. Getting naked with Blair beat fishing any day of the week. It had taken him long enough to figure it out, and to believe that it could actually happen. A little voice inside him informed him that _this_ honeymoon would be the one that would last. As always, when it really mattered, he listened to his instincts.

 

_finis_

 


End file.
